Dancing About Architecture
by bleargh
Summary: And the twain shall meet again. It's been eight years - Spike's changed. (SLASH - S/X)
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (1/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly  
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*  
DISTRIBUTION: List archives, my site. Or just ask.  
RATING: Eventually NC-17 for m/m nummies and more angst than reasonably  
allowed by law.  
PAIRING: X/"S"  
SUMMARY: And the twain shall meet again.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've actually *researched* this story. This is how involved in it I  
currently am. Hopefully I'll entertain someone other than me with it. Unbeta'ed.   
  
* * *   
  
  
The radio was counting down the Top 50 rock tunes of the decade, and normally I  
would've been annoyed at the static of the two stations coming in at once through the  
tiny speakers. There was a discreet, unkempt battle between The Boss and Asia going  
on in my bright kitchen, but I hardly noticed.   
  
Bosco sat next to my feet by the refrigerator, looking up at me and wondering why  
I'd stop paying attention to him. As big a dog as he was, he still had the puppy eyes  
working for him, and he was most likely shooting his best pitiful look at me right  
about now. His doggy pants barely overlayed the battle of the bands going on on the  
counter a few feet away.   
  
The two little mundane noises only served to make the quiet of the afternoon even  
more oppressing. It would've been fine, I suspected, had I not been holding this  
particular piece of paper in my hand.   
  
See, this wasn't supposed to happen. We were fine. I, was more than fine. I had  
grown up and grown old, not a whole lot but just enough to feel comfortable in the  
normal everyday task of making a living. I had a job I loved, and a nice apartment in  
a town that never heard of a hellmouth. I was done poking at what goes bump in the  
night, and admittedly, I didn't miss it much. I still had all of my friends, thankfully all  
alive and well, and they all had jobs and lives of their own. I had a dog, and a nice  
car. I wore clothes that made me look my age, I had an assistant, and I didn't have  
to wear a tie, or go to any office five days a week. I was turning 30 in two years, and  
I was doing good. Really good.   
  
This train of thought lead me to look up and at what I could see of my apartment  
from where I stood by the kitchen doorway. Bright. Mostly white. Walls covered with  
framed photographs, my work, my livelihood. Bookshelves ready to collapse from the  
weight of books and hundreds of photo magazines collected over the years.  
Momentos, here and there, of travels, of people, of times passed. A comfy, well worn  
couch. Hardwood floor scratched by the dog's nails. Prints and negs and equipment  
covering most flat surfaces. And, it smelled good. It smelled like home.   
  
That bit of observation over with, my gaze returned, hesitant, to the letter I still held  
in both hands. Thoughts, trivial, crossed my mind randomly. How not ten minutes ago  
I had picked up this letter along with a half dozen other pieces of mail, coming home  
from an assignment with about my weight in equipment slung around my shoulder.  
How I had dropped off most of it in the darkroom before coming back to listen to my  
voice mail in the kitchen. How I had reached in the fridge and grabbed a beer, tossing  
junk mail around as I had listened to the disembodied voice of Sarah - the assistant -  
detailing certain going-ons I apparently needed to be aware of. How Bosco had  
slalomed between my legs excitedly, happy to have me home. How I had been  
halfway towards the livingroom when I noticed the last piece of mail I had kept in my  
hand. Handwritten, with a return address I did not recognize. Had ripped the white  
enveloppe open without much care, half expecting a cleverly disguised ad from  
someone wanting to do something to my carpet for an amazingly low price. Instead, I  
got eight years crashing back into me, and he signed it, "Spike".   
  
  
  
TBC 


	2. (2/?)

TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (2/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly  
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*  
DISTRIBUTION: Nummy Treats, William archives, my site.  
Or just ask.  
RATING: Eventually NC-17 for m/m nummies and more angst  
than reasonably allowed by law.  
PAIRING: X/"S"  
SUMMARY: And the twain shall meet again.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've actually *researched* this story.  
This is how involved in it I currently am. Hopefully  
I'll entertain someone other than me with it.  
Unbeta'ed.  
  
(I admit it, I kinda wrote Sarah like Donna Moss from  
'The West Wing'. Got the whole Josh/Donna thing going  
by mistake. Yes, I amuse myself.)  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
If I peered over my shoes, I could see the tiny ribbon  
of pink tainting the sky on the horizon, promising of  
yet another sunny day. I blinked and stared listlessly  
at the coming dawn, slumped in the big armchair with my  
legs stretched out in front of me on the matching  
ottoman. Both forearms propped up on the large  
armrests, I uncrossed my legs and crossed them again at  
the ankles. My shoulders started to feel numb from  
sitting like this with my chin resting on my chest, but  
I was unsure as to how else I should deal with this  
sudden case of insomnia. Boring myself to sleep seemed  
like as good an idea as any. If only I were bored. If  
only my racing mind could acknowledge my conscious  
efforts to side-step the issue at hand. I took great  
care to avoid looking at the coffee table next to me,  
where the disruptive missive had been abandoned, hours  
ago, in favour of something - anything - less  
upsetting. Sunrise, as it was, was barely cutting it.  
  
Annoyed, I blindly reached for the letter but was  
caught mid-movement by the ring of the phone right next  
to my head. I jumped and cursed, my heart racing from  
the sudden loudness. I grabbed the cordless and hit  
'talk' with a shaky thumb before bringing the cold  
plastic to my ear.  
  
"It's five in the morning, Sarah," I said tonelessly,  
sinking back in the armchair.  
  
"Hey, you're up. Listen, about today's shoot, you need  
to get there at two instead of three. Mr. Caldwell  
called last night and he's saying you said two the  
first time."  
  
"Sarah. It's five in the morning."  
  
"Yes. Do you need anything? I'm on my way to the pastry  
shop now, I'll get something fresh. I know you like  
those almond things, but they're always out when I go  
later, so if I go now I can get them, plus I love the  
smell of freshly ground coffee beans. The women there  
are really nice. You should go sometime."  
  
"I'm hanging up now."  
  
"It's five in the morning - what are you doing up?"  
  
"Goodbye, Sarah," I sang at the phone as I hit 'end'.  
  
I stared over my shoes again, phone in hand because I  
didn't want to make the effort to put it back on the  
table. Then the room got too silent and I glanced at  
the phone again, thoughts actually forming inside my  
head this time. I hit 'talk' again, and the second  
speed-dial button. It rang once.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"I thought you were going to the pastry shop."  
  
"I'm on my way out."  
  
"Cancel my two o'clock."  
  
"Xander!"  
  
"Cancel my two o'clock. Did I ever tell you about this  
guy Spike?"  
  
"No. What do you mean cancel your two o'clock?"  
  
I reached for the letter and shook it open, getting up  
with surprising energy. "He's this guy I used to know  
back home."  
  
"The British guy?"  
  
"Yes. Well no, not him. But he's British too."  
  
"You never told me there were two British guys."  
  
"He wrote me a letter."  
  
"Just now?"  
  
"Got it yesterday."  
  
"Xander, I can't cancel your two o'clock."  
  
"He wrote me a letter."  
  
"So you said. What about it."  
  
"He's dead, Sarah."  
  
"He's dead?"  
  
"Did I mention he wrote me a letter?"  
  
"How can he be dead and write you a letter?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"I'll cancel your two o'clock."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
Sarah stared at me from behind her steaming cup,  
looking like I had just attempted to explain the choas  
theory to her.  
  
"So he's an asshole."  
  
I sighed. This wasn't going very well. But I had to  
tell her. Kinda. "He's not an asshole. He's... Spike.  
Yeah he's a jackass, but he's a part of 'home', you  
know?"  
  
"I thought you didn't miss home."  
  
"I don't. But I don't regret my time there either,  
Sarah. I grew up there. That stupid town, it made me  
what I am today."  
  
"If you're going to wax clichés at me, you should've  
told me beforehand, I wouldn't have gotten decaf."  
  
"I thought he was dead," I sighed, and it felt like the  
most off-target delivery.  
  
"See, this I still don't get. How can you think he was  
dead, then oops, he's not. I mean how does that  
happen."  
  
"He..." How could I go into this without bringing up  
the whole demon thing? I loved Sarah, but her current  
neuroses were quite enough without adding to the fold.  
"Spike was always getting in trouble. Then he got into  
really BIG trouble one day with a- with this guy, and  
he got injured in b- in a fight." Dammit, way to  
maneuver around a vernacular that still came naturally.  
"He layed low for a while, then one day he disappeared.  
We... it looked very much like-" I swallowed awkwardly.  
"Like the other guy won."  
  
I picked up my danish and put it back down again at a  
different angle, knowing that if I were to look up I'd  
only encounter a concerned female frown. I didn't know  
how to deal with that, because I didn't know how to  
deal with me in the first place.  
  
What the hell was this? Spike. So he was alive.  
Presumably well. Well enough to suddenly, out of  
nowhere and after eight years of utter absence, reach  
out and randomly pick me to send a note to. 'Hey, I'm  
alive. See ya.' Lot of good that did. But more  
interesting yet, why was *I* feeling like I'd been  
knocked the wind out of?  
  
So he was evil. But if there was something I had  
learned from years of running around Sunnydale, it was  
that evil didn't always mean evil. There was Angel.  
Anya. And tipping the scale at the other end, there was  
Faith. All of them together prooving once again that  
labels were just that - labels. As far as I could tell,  
Spike had, if not a soul, at least a heart. And in the  
last years the chip had changed his ways ultimately for  
the better. Hey, it wasn't perfect, but the Big Bad  
had, along the way, become a little good. Maybe a bit  
contrived at first, then almost willingly so. Near the  
end, you would've asked anyone within our group, and  
the reluctant answer would've been that yes, Spike had  
actually belonged. So I figure, that's why this sudden  
news shook me so. Yeah, that was it.  
  
And now what. Now... now he was alive. Somewhere.  
  
Sarah excused herself and went to the washroom, and I  
took the letter out of my pocket. It was already  
wrinkled, like an old love letter. Ha. Right. I twirled  
the envelope between my fingers, mind still wandering.  
I looked at the written surface blankly. Then less  
blankly. I brought the paper closer to my face and read  
the return address, which I had readily dismissed the  
first time.  
  
It read, "William Sawyer, 1202-642 East 58th Street,  
New York, NY." Alive, in New York City. Hiding under a  
pseudonym.  
  
Now what.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	3. (3/?)

  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (3/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly  
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*  
DISTRIBUTION: Nummy Treats, William archives, my site. Or just ask.  
RATING: Eventually NC-17 for m/m nummies and more angst than reasonably allowed by law.  
PAIRING: X/"S"  
SUMMARY: And the twain shall meet again.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A thousand thanks to Mad Poetess and Froog for their impromptu beta services! Thanks to them, I look a little more together :)  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
I'd been thinking. Long and hard. So long in fact that when I had decided to finally get out of the apartment, Bosco had practically chased me out. So that morning I stormed into the big loft I shared with my business partners, and promptly tripped over a trash can that stood in the middle of the floor. I kicked it away and into a pile of empty boxes.  
  
"Godamm- SARAH!" I yelled, arms full of papers. She appeared from the back at the sound of my voice, sauntering over. "What is this."  
  
"This? Oh, that. Matt and I were playing basketball."   
  
I dumped a couple of packages in her arms. "Well, not to spoil your fun, but here's a little work for you. Savour it."  
  
Matt came out of the back too, holding an impossibly large sandwich to his face. I pointed at him, starting in his direction. "YOU."  
  
He grinned at me around a bit. "Hey, you're back."  
  
"Matt-"  
  
"You look like shit."  
  
"Hey, guess what. Goodies for you. Don't chew too fast." I handed the rest of the packages to him and went over my work table to gather some things.  
  
Matt handed the sandwich to Sarah and made his way to me. He always looked like a hacker when he needed a haircut. He watched me rummage through my mess. "So. Where're you going again?"  
  
"N-Y-C, baby."   
  
"Uh huh. And what for?"  
  
I opened a drawer, then closed it again, looking for a particular strap for my camera. "Visiting a friend."  
  
Matt turned to Sarah. "He's going to see a boy," he teased indirectly.  
  
"Have you seen my blue strap?"  
  
"Over there."  
  
I grabbed it from under my phone and shoved it in my bag along with my camera and a book I'd been reading. I shouldered the bag, grabbing my jacket from the chair. I pointed a menacing finger at Matt, moving towards the door. "Touch my toys and die."  
  
"I never do."  
  
"Like hell you don't."  
  
"Xander!"  
  
"Whatever. Sarah." I gave her my house keys and kissed her on the cheek, heading for the door. "He's almost out of food. Grab some of the expensive stuff. He's going to hate it that I'm gone."  
  
"You are so good to that dog."  
  
I ran down the metal stairway, shouting over the sound of my own clanging footsteps. "I've got a cab waiting! I'll call you on Friday! Oh, and feed Matt too!"  
  
I ran out of the building and jumped into the taxi, throwing my bags next to me on the backseat. The car peeled off and the cabbie looked at me in the rearview mirror. "It's going to be pretty tight, buddy."  
  
"Just get me there." I slumped back, exhaling shakily. I peered out the window at the blurry scenery, and I knew at this point that I couldn't change my mind. Well I could, but I'd feel like a jackass doing it. So it was all or nothing.  
  
"Where's that plane taking you?"  
  
"New York."  
  
"What's in New York?"  
  
"I..." I gave this a little thought, then smiled lightly, watching traffic, tapping my fingers on the bag next to me. "I don't know."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
I sat down, leafed through American Photo, ate peanuts, sat some more, and suddenly I was in New York, feeling stupid. Truth was, aside from my harebrained plan to come here and see Spike, I had nothing. I had a hotel reservation, and three days' worth of clothes. I had nothing. If there was a way to go at this even more half-assed, I was sure to get to it shortly.   
  
I checked in and threw myself in the shower, where I stood under the hot jet, thinking. I did that a lot, whether or not I had something to think about. I certainly did today. I was still boggled by my own reasons for coming to New York and seek the prodigal hellion. Those exact reasons still escaped me; it was like trying to grasp a wisp of the steam around me, while all I could really do was run a wet finger on the slick glass door. It left a sleek, clear mark, and I looked at the word I had written. Spike. I stared at my work for a moment, then added quotation marks to it, and stepped back to lean against the cold wall. That's how he'd written it. "Spike". I briefly wondered why that was, then pushed the thought to the back of my head and grabbed the bar of soap. Tomorrow. I'd go tomorrow. Rested, and hopefully a tad less clueless.  
  
Hours later, as I lay in bed watching the news on mute, I reached and grabbed my cel phone, barely giving any thought to what I was doing. I dialed, yawning explicitly.   
  
"Hello?"  
  
"I'm going tomorrow."  
  
"Good."  
  
"How's Bosco?"  
  
"Sleeping like a baby. I, by the way, am fine too."  
  
"That's a given."  
  
"Go to bed, Xander."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What are you gonna do?"  
  
"I don't know. Just... go, I guess. Say hi. See what eight years did to him. Get it done and go back home."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"This is silly, Sarah."  
  
"It's not silly."  
  
"It's silly. Why am I here? I don't know why I'm here."  
  
"You'll know when you see him."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"Just enjoy your time away, for one thing. You deserve a break. You've been working your ass off lately."  
  
"I love my job. You know that."  
  
"You can afford to spend some time in New York giving yourself ulcers over this guy."  
  
"I am, aren't I."  
  
"Yes. Go to sleep. You still remember how that's done, right?"  
  
"I'll call you tomorrow."  
  
"Yes. Night, Xander."  
  
"Night."  
  
I flipped the phone shut and put it back on the night table, turning the light off. I left the TV on.   
  
I still felt stupid.  
  
  
TBC  
  



	4. (4/?)

  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (4/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly  
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*  
DISTRIBUTION: Nummy Treats, William archives, my site. Or just ask.  
RATING: Eventually NC-17 for m/m nummies and more angst than reasonably allowed by law.  
PAIRING: X/"S"  
SUMMARY: And the twain shall meet again.  
NOTE: Thanks to the lovely Amy for her great beta services. Good as gold, I tell ya.  
  
* * *  
  
  
I had this annoying jump in my step that people who get up early on purpose get. I'd woken up at eight, feeling strangely carefree, and had casually thrown on the first things I'd grabbed out of my bag. Then I'd spent all day poking around the neighbourhood, going to a particular camera shop I'd been wanting to check out for a while, eating lunch by myself at a nice little terrace on a very busy sidewalk. At some point I had even considered visiting a gallery, but then had realized that most of the day had gone by (surprisingly fast, come to think of it), and that I could now head over to wherever it was Spike now called home, with the reasonable assessment that he'd be home and up. And now I stood on 58th, seriously questioning my choice of wardrobe.  
  
I wondered idly what I was wearing last time I saw Spike. This whole business was making me feel very much like a twenty-year-old again, and I peered down at my outfit hesitantly. I mean, I wasn't that far off. It was a particularly balmy mid-May, and I'd donned comfy chinos with a pale green shirt and my black jacket. I couldn't have been more casual had I tried. But I refused to let myself obsess over how I looked for this reunion, all the while ignoring the blatant fact that I very much *was*.  
  
I was holding a half-drunk cup of coffee, and I realized I was drumming my fingers against it, which is something I do when I'm nervous. This was ridiculous, I told myself, peering at the apartment building in front of me. I was going to show up, he would look me up and down with a smirk and then carry on like we'd just spent the previous night side by side watching the Slayer's back. He would light a cigarette and not offer me one, because he wouldn't know that I'd quit fourteen months ago. Because he wouldn't know I had started in the first place. It would be weird for me, and he'd just shrug it off, and that would be it. I'd go home, the end. See, easy. Go.  
  
I tossed the cup into a nearby trashcan and dug the address from my pocket, just in case I didn't remember the apartment number. I did. Hell, I remembered the zip code. I hadn't even bothered to transcribe the address - I was carrying the jagged corner of the envelope he had addressed himself addressed.   
  
I crossed the street between cabs and impatient commuters. A pleasant doorman in a nice suit greeted me when I came in, and the whole thing struck me as funny. When had Spike gone soft? A doorman? A foyer? *58th Street*? Not sumptuous per se, but really... nice. Clean, proper upper-middle-class. The people who lived here made a very good living but couldn't afford to park a car in the City. That kind of people.   
  
A thought stopped me dead in my tracks in front of the elevator. What if Spike was living with someone else? Someone who would want all this? Darla and Drusilla had long been dealt with, and Angel was in L.A. still, doing whatever it was that he did there. But still, Spike had a particular affinity for the concept of 'family'. Who was to say he hadn't teamed up with some old friends from his roaming days? Or sired himself a playmate? Or found a substitute for Angel? Those thoughts alone almost made me turn around, but in all honesty I didn't feel like going past the doorman again. With all this dithering, I fervently hoped there wasn't any security camera pointed my way.  
  
Suddenly, like only a person with a business card and real grown-up debts could, I rationalized my behaviour in a heartbeat, chalked it up to my missing home a bit, and hit the elevator's 'up' button without thinking about it any further. It felt like boarding an upside-down ride I'd been bullied into going on, and just like any ride it was over all too soon, and damn it if his door wasn't the first one in front of the elevator. I had hoped for a little buffer between me and impending doom, but it looked like I had to face the music and stop dabbling. The complete absurdity of the situation briefly came to mind, and I knocked with renewed bravado, remembering that this was a guy I once had no problem tying to a chair. If anything, he owed me.  
  
I was about to knock again when the other elevator door opened behind me. Instinctively I turned to see who it was, and in a moment that could have been even less than a second, I had met pale blue eyes I knew all too well, looking back at me over tortoise-shell glasses that fell too low on the bridge of his nose. Had I had a weaker disposition, I might have fainted. As it was, I stared at Spike, stunned motionless, and he mirrored my reaction.  
  
Truly, you could've thrown anything at me. I was prepared for everything. I had envisioned every possible scenario, every imaginable outcome of this meeting. I was, by all means, prepared, despite my nervousness. The Big Bad could've come at me at any angle, I would have sparred it. Awkwardly, no doubt there, but I would have. All this, of course, assuming I would be dealing with SPIKE.  
  
I swallowed thickly, wishing I could blink. "... Spike?" I managed to croak out.  
  
He stared back a moment more, blankly, then smiled softly. "Xander," he let out quietly.  
  
"You..."  
  
"What- what are you doing here?"  
  
"I... well. You... Spike?"  
  
"Yes. It's me, Xander." Now the smile had crept to his eyes, and he stood a little straighter, holding his house keys in both hands.   
  
This is where I took a mental step back and paused the scene, taking in what I had before me.  
  
It was Spike. No doubt about it. There were things about him I'd have recognized anywhere: his shoulders, sharp chin, straight nose, clear blue eyes. But the rest made something in my stomach flip-flop confusingly. For one, his hair. Blond, still, but much darker, and falling in longish curls over his brow and ears. Then the glasses, dark, rectangular, stylish, framing his face like he was born with them. He wore brown slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The topmost button was undone, and an expensive tie hung around his neck loosely. He had a brown leather bag under his arm, overflowing with papers and books. His suit jacket was slung over it. For some reason my gaze stopped at his wrist, where a nice watch hung off protruding bones.   
  
He cleared his throat. I looked up, startled.  
  
He gestured towards his door with his keys. "Let's go in." He walked past me and fiddled with the doorknob for a few seconds, then swung the door open. He threw me a sideways glance and stepped inside and out of my sight. I gulped, hesitated, then followed.  
  
  
TBC  
  



	5. (5/?)

  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (5/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly  
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*  
DISTRIBUTION: My site, list archives. Or just ask.  
RATING: Eventually R for m/m nummies.  
PAIRING: X/"S"  
SUMMARY: And the twain shall meet again.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
I was suddenly oddly observant for the nervous wreck that I was. I stepped foot into the   
quiet apartment, practically holding my breath, and Spike closed the  
door behind me, making my heart jump up in my throat. Maybe coffee had been a bad idea.  
  
I turned to him, wondering what the hell was next. He kept his eyes averted from me, putting   
his keys down on a narrow table next to the door, and his bag and jacket on a nearby chair.   
Then he ran a nervous hand through his hair, leaving it slightly disheveled, and peered up at   
me hesitantly, resting both hands on his hips. And it looked like the most natural thing, him  
standing there, more beautiful than I ever thought he would be, among everyday things, his   
things. A home, not a lair. Comfort. Practicality. Just like a regular guy. I knew whatever had   
happened would never, ever make William the Bloody a 'regular guy', but this was as close as   
I could imagine him getting to that concept.   
  
He bit the inside of his bottom lip, staring at me thoughtfully, then moved toward the living   
room area, gesturing at me. "We need to talk."   
  
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. That. Right there. He'd said it just like Spike.   
Thick accent, Cockney drawl... slightly more polished, but I was willing to ignore that for the   
sake of my own peace of mind. He moved differently too, less of a swagger, a lot less of the   
cockiness he'd always had in his step, but still as much grace to his movements, still moving   
with cat-like elegance. I guess one never loses that.   
  
I stayed where I was with my back to the door, and he turned to face me again, this time   
with the couch between us. Behind him, across the living room, were wide windows that took   
up the entire width of the room, uncurtained. It was still very bright outside, and no light   
needed to be turned on for the room to be lit cozily. It reminded me of what I liked, how my   
own home was, walls covered with overflowing bookshelves, furniture chosen for comfort   
instead of style, while the whole thing just meshed into a wonderful sense of warmth that   
even my own house couldn't hold a candle to. I was in awe. And he stood in the middle of it,  
part of it all.   
  
He tugged at his right sleeve, rolling it again to his elbow, then brought the back of his hand   
up to push his glasses up his nose in an absent gesture. "I wrote you." His tone was   
unreadable.  
  
I nodded. I had to speak up for this to be an actual conversation. Right. "Yeah..." Oratory had   
never been my strong point. In fact I seemed to lose my basic grasp on the English language   
in situations like this. And I hadn't been in a situation like this since... Hell, since I'd left   
Sunnydale.  
  
He looked at me a moment more, then held out his hand toward the couch in front of him.   
"Sit?" he asked, and it sounded like both an offer and a plea.   
  
I nodded again and circled the couch, while he escaped on the other side to the kitchen, once   
again disappearing from sight. His disembodied voice came to me muffled: "Want anything to   
drink?"   
  
"Um, sure," I said lightly, sitting down on the couch. This could go as smoothly as I wanted it   
to. Maybe.  
  
"Heineken good?"  
  
Not really. "Yeah. Thanks." My voice suddenly sounded okay, like I met up with long-lost   
vampires every other day.   
  
He came back with our drinks, handing me one of the cold bottles. Then he sat next to me,   
elbow up on the back of the couch, facing me. He smiled. That same smile he'd had in the   
hallway.  
  
"It's good to see you, Xander."   
  
I realized what was different with his voice. He just... spoke. Didn't declare, or mock, or sneer   
- just spoke. It made his whole voice softer, his tone lighter. Just a little. Just enough.  
  
And then it became the easiest thing I'd even done.   
  
"What happened, Spike?"  
  
He nodded, took a quiet swig from his green bottle, and licked at his lips. "I became human   
again."  
  
"What?"  
  
He reached out and took the bottle from my own hands as I suddenly lost all feeling in my   
fingers.   
  
"I became human again," he repeated in the same tone. He didn't sound like he'd ever said it.  
  
I nodded, unsure.  
  
"Think you can handle holding this again?" he teased with a soft smirk and a tilt of my bottle   
in his hand.  
  
Shakily, I got on my feet and pulled him with me, towards the wide expanse of clear windows   
on the opposite side of the room. I stopped and turned to him, and my hand fell from his   
sleeve expectantly. With both bottles still in his hands, he stepped forward and into the   
bright light, and said nothing. And for the first time ever it hit me just how *blue* his eyes   
are. Alive.  
  
My stunned gaze traveled down his chiseled features, down the defined cheekbone, along the   
sharp line of his jaw. How the skin glowed healthily there, looking as warm as it probably felt   
under the sunlight. Under the touch.  
  
The supple material of his shirt, of a pleasant off-white, fell softly around his delicate neck,   
and I noticed the almost imperceptible throb of his jugular under his jaw. He swallowed   
absently, and his adam's apple bobbed once. I let out a shaky breath, and peered up at him.   
He was watching me watching him, squinting slightly at the midday sun.   
  
My hand stretched achingly at my side, and finally I reached out and laid it flat on his chest,   
right over his heart. He didn't react, just smiled a little, holding the bottles out of my way.   
And there it was. Thump. Thump. Thump. And the quiet heaving of his chest, right there   
under my fingers. I felt something in my mind pop softly, like warm water leaking out of  
your ear hours after you get out of the pool. A lopsided smile tugged at my lips.  
  
* * *  
  
He took me back to the couch, and told me everything. How the demon he'd been fighting had   
been far more relentless than originally anticipated, and how it had gotten the better of him   
in the end. How it had felt to finally know he was going to die, without any heroic fight,   
without any apocalypse; just because this time, he hadn't been able to fight back. How he  
had closed his eyes and waited for the final blow. How he'd woken up the next day in the   
parking lot behind the local bank, in mid-afternoon, with a heartbeat. How he'd crawled back   
to his crypt and had hidden there for two days, shaking. What it had been like to crave food   
again for the first time in over a century. How he had done the only thing that had come to   
mind: go to LA.  
  
"Angel?" I asked, sipping my drink.  
  
He chuckled. "Angel. I ran back to my sire with my tail between my legs, and that little team   
of his helped me figure things out and get back on my feet, so to speak. Angel was stunned   
speechless. He didn't know what to do with William."  
  
"They knew about this all along?"  
  
"And kept quiet, like I asked them to. It's been eight years, Xander, and I'm still just getting   
a hold of it."  
  
"What did... how did the demon..."  
  
He looked out the window at the city twelve stories down. "As far as Wesley could tell, it was   
someone's brilliant idea of vengeance. Thought perhaps turning Spike the Pariah back to his   
shameful human self would be proper punishment for all the torment I'd caused. Couldn't   
figure out how they did it though, and I couldn't help thinking of Angel. He had to wait for his   
redemption, while I got a free ride..." He trailed off, lost in thoughts.  
  
"You... you didn't mind? Being human again?"  
  
He looked over at me, and something shone in his eyes. I'd touched a chord. He sat up with   
sudden energy, shifting slightly closer to me. "I was *alive* again. I was me. William. The   
soul was back, and it felt like it had never left. But my years as Spike gave me what I'd   
lacked as a boy - confidence, pride, self-worth. It was exhilarating!" He let out a happy laugh,   
and I smiled, his joy contagious. "I don't know who to thank for this, but they have no idea..."   
He became more serious again, his smile lingering on his lips, his voice softening. "They have   
no idea what they were giving me. I was me again. I'd never felt anything so good."   
  
And I had never heard him speak so passionately about anything.   
  
  
  
TBC  
  
  
  
  
(feedback devoured.)  
  
  
  
--   
Marie-Claude  
http://verticalcrawl.com  
  
"We're in here? That's how you answer the door?"  
"Well I was all out of Saran Wrap."  



	6. (6/?)

  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (6/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/fic  
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*  
DISTRIBUTION: My site, list archives. Or just ask.  
RATING: R (maybe even NC-17 - but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it, eh.)  
PAIRING: X/S  
SUMMARY: And the twain shall meet again.  
  
NOTE: I'm so, so, SO sorry about the delay. This chapter suffered many rewrites and gave me a few ulcers on the way there. Huuuuuge thanks to Mad  
Poetess for her beta-reading, and to Alexandria for quasi-24/7 back-patting and for generally humouring me.  
  
"Definitely. Most definitely. Talking about love is like dancing about architecture."  
  
* * *  
  
  
"Table for two?"  
  
I was jerked back to reality by the chipper female voice. Just now realising what I'd been doing, I tore my eyes off Spike and looked at the hostess, a bit frazzled. She threw me a look then smiled blankly at Spike, who must've looked a little more in charge than me.  
  
"Yes please," he answered normally (because it was a normal question) and he didn't burst into flames.  
  
Not that you'd expect someone to randomly burst into flame at this, but I'd just walked seven city blocks with him, in broad daylight, and, well, here we had it. Perfectly healthy, sans smoke Spike. Yes I'd understood the previous implications of "I'm human", but to see it at work had still thrown me off.   
  
I was yanked out of my reverie - AGAIN - but the girl, who wanted to know whether or not we wanted to sit in the smoking section. Spike turned to me and I flinched (my staring had been exclusively one-way since we'd left his apartment).  
  
"Do you mind if...?"   
  
He still smoked. Oh thank the lord. Spike still smoked. Spike was still a little like... Spike. This could make it easier.   
  
I shook my head, going for casualness wave in the air. "Nah."  
  
The hostess led us through the crowded restaurant to a small table near the back. "A server will be with you in a moment." She left, and we sat in silence. Spike busied himself taking off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. I felt a little underdressed.  
  
While I had trouble tearing my eyes off him, I got the distinct impression he was doing his best to look at anything but me.  
  
"So," I exhaled.  
  
"Right." He brought his attention back to me, looking up at me expectantly from over his glasses. I had the urge to reach across the table and push them up his nose a bit.  
  
Instead, I braced myself for the rest of the conversation. "Where were we?" I blurted out.  
  
"You were talking about this Sarah person."  
  
Damn. Still my turn. But I heard my voice all the time; I wanted to hear HIS. "Sarah. Right. Well when I moved to town I met her brother, Michael. We went out for a couple of months. Great guy. Journalist. Got me my job at the paper, junior photographer." I laughed. "If you ask him he'll say that he's the one who discovered my talent." I smiled at the thought. I kinda missed him still. Never really got over him completely.  
  
Spike smirked at me. "Yeah, I was wondering where that came from. I'll have to meet this Michael fellow and get to the bottom of this."  
  
"Oh yeah, that's really what I need - you and him in the same room!" It was said lightly, but I regretted it as soon as it came out of my mouth. Hopefully Spike wouldn't inquire as to why I didn't want the two of them to meet, ever. I'm not sure I knew why myself. If I had to be totally honest with myself, I'd have to admit to having a slight problem with having an old boyfriend meet... whatever the hell this was. I gulped and my feet played with my camera bag between the legs of my chair. I kept forgetting about it, which was unusual since it was practically a part of myself. I vaguely remembered dropping it when I had stepped inside Spike's apartment. I never did that.  
  
Spike peered at me thoughtfully; looking very much like he'd followed my train of thought and had come to the same conclusion. And just as he opened his mouth, our server approached our table, and I wanted to kiss him.   
  
The server. Kiss the SERVER.  
  
"Good evening, gentlemen. Can I offer you anything to drink?"  
  
Spike addressed me. "Red wine?"  
  
"Sure." Why the hell not. Red wine with Spike, at a fancy little bistro in New York City - WHY. NOT. I'm sure stranger things had happened. Or would.  
  
Spike asked for a French wine I couldn't pronounce, and our server moseyed away once again.  
  
"Continue. Please." He had to stop smiling at me like that. Took me a minute to remember where I was.  
  
"Right. Michael. Guy cracked me up. We had a great time."  
  
"Didn't work out?" Spike inquired distractedly as our server came back again and poured dark red liquid into spotless glasses. Spike murmured a quiet thank you, his attention still mostly on me.  
  
"Yeah, we kinda wanted different things, although it took us forever to figure it out. In the meantime, it'd been great." I sounded wistful, I could hear it.  
  
Spike nodded, tasting the wine. I watched the velvety crimson touch his lips and cleared my throat deliberately. "So, anyway, we stayed friends, but we saw each other less and less. Then he got a job in Chicago, and I've only seen him a couple of times since."   
  
I paused and tasted the wine myself. I watched him from over the rim of my glass, watched his throat as he swallowed. Mmmm, very good.  
  
The wine. The WINE.  
  
Maybe dinner had been a bad idea after all.  
  
And - I had to keep reminding myself forcefully - this was *Spike*. Spike. Not a... a "guy". Not just a guy, a guy you could hit on and imagine building anything with. First off, too much history there. Waaay too much. Second...  
  
No, dammit.  
  
I forced myself back on topic. "Sarah, though, I saw all the time. She got me, you know? We hung out every other day, and eventually we both quit our jobs and set up our own little business. It was just a tiny studio at first, but then we started getting good gigs. Another friend of ours - Matt - joined us and... Well, there you have it. That's six, almost seven years."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You went away and did something, you know? Sometimes it was hard to imagine any of you - of *us* ever doing anything else."  
  
"Yeah," I sighed evasively.  
  
We both consciously avoided talking about Buffy, who was still in Sunnydale killing vampires like a good girl. At 29. I couldn't imagine what that was like. I didn't want to. Instead, we perused our menus quietly. But my choice of meal was the farthest thing from my mind.  
  
"What about you, Spike? What did you do when you got here? What do you do now?" The outfit, the apartment - there was something there I couldn't wait to hear.  
  
He threw a last look at the menu then closed it and put it down in front of himself on the table, hands joined. "Well. I... I teach."  
  
Beat. "Say what?"  
  
He smiled. "I teach. English Lit at NYU."  
  
My fingers drummed on the tablecloth and I stared at him, waiting for the inevitable 'I'm kidding'. Which didn't seem likely to happen as the seconds ticked by.  
  
"You're kidding."  
  
"I'm not." His voice was measured as he tried to gauge my reaction.  
  
I considered this for a moment, then shrugged and took another sip of wine. "It's fitting, I suppose."  
  
He grinned and exhaled discreetly, but I did catch it. I grinned back, feeling something twiddle happily in my stomach. About that regular guy theory...  
  
"How did you manage that?"  
  
"I already had a degree from Oxford; Angel just had someone play around with a couple records, forge one or two papers. I was pretty good at what I did back then, and I got myself a TA position within a few months. Three years later I was teaching my own class. It's nice, you know? Teaching again, writing... I'm paid to do what I love, and I'm being corny right now, aren't I," he finished with an amused wince.  
  
"Hey, I know the feeling. Look at me - Sarah always says I don't know where fun ends and work begins. Not a lot of people get to have that."  
  
He nodded, peering at me intriguingly between blond lashes.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
A few hours later and near the end of our second bottle, I was feeling considerably less confused. I was absently pushing the last uneaten bite of what I think was veal around my plate with my fork, my whole body rippling with the pleasant buzz of tipsy laughter. We'd both carefully sidestepped further tales of our own lives, to wander in the more comfortable territory of reminiscing of things past. Good times.  
  
Spike sighed contentedly and threw his cloth napkin on his empty plate. "Well, as much as I like this place, I'm getting tired of the sight of it. What do you say we get out of here?"  
  
We both tossed a few bills on the table and wandered out the door into the cool evening air, shrugging on our jackets. It was nice to be in a big city other than L.A. New York had its own feel, a refreshing change.   
  
I shouldered my bag and looked back at Spike, who was observing me silently. The moment had a surreal feel to it, with me cold from the fresh air and warm from the wine, feeling a little lightheaded - and him standing there with his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, piercing blue eyes through thin specs, all man about town and decidedly at home in this lively urban setting. I shivered.  
  
He lit a cigarette and I leaned back a bit until my back rested against the brick wall behind me, next to the restaurant door. We watched people go by for a moment, wordlessly. Then Spike spoke in a quiet murmur.  
  
"How long are you in town for?"  
  
"I have a day left. I leave Sunday morning."  
  
He nodded, and we didn't say anything else for another few minutes. Then his voice rose again, just as soft:  
  
He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the street, where the wet pavement put it out. "Where are you staying?"  
  
"At..." I fished out the keycard from my pocket and looked at the green lettering on it. "The Marriott. On West 54th."  
  
Then something happened as soon as my words died out - it's like the invitation sort of hung in the air between us, and I think he was waiting for me to grab it without him having to spell it out. We settled for a compromise. He moved slightly and we met halfway, his lips crushing mine with an unexpected warmth. It was at once simple and awkward, with almost no other parts of our bodies touching, shaking hands hidden away in pockets. I was so acutely aware of the situation I could feel the cold of the brick behind me seeping through my jacket and shirt to chill the skin of my shoulders, I could feel the discreet breeze making his hair tickle my cheek. Damn, it'd been much, much too long.   
  
I deepened the kiss blindly and his soft moan rolled over my tongue as he got half a step closer. I swear I--  
  
"DADDY!!!"   
  
I opened my eyes at the sudden shrill sound and Spike was unceremoniously yanked away from me. I blinked, frozen into place, and looked at him, dumbfounded, as a very short person happily hugged his thigh. Spike grabbed a handful of my sleeve to regain his balance, and his other hand went to the boy's blond head.  
  
"Julian!" he panted out, surprise making his voice shaky and definitely more Spike-like. He looked at me, eyes filling with sudden hopelessness and what looked like apology.  
  
"Well, well." We both turned to see a pretty girl in a long beige coat, smirking at us with apparent glee from a few feet away.  
  
"Hey, Liz," Spike let out sheepishly, letting go of my sleeve.  
  
The young woman, in her early thirties with dirty blond hair in a slick ponytail, stepped closer, reaching out to retrieve the child from between our bodies. "Looks like my Will is getting lucky," she singsonged happily.  
  
Spike gulped and looked back at me. "Liz... this is Xander Harris. From back home."  
  
"Oh, right right right. I remember. Wow, he's exactly like you described him, Will. Good going." She elbowed him lightly, and he actually smiled. Just a little, but enough to tell me whatever was going on, it was okay.  
  
He cleared his throat. "Xander... this, this is Elisabeth. My... My ex-wife..."  
  
Pause. Ex-wife. Okay. Resume.  
  
"... and this is Julian, my, my son."  
  
Ah. Yes. I need to call Sarah.  
  
  
  
TBC  
  
  
  



	7. (7/?)

  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (7/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com  
FEEDBACK: Hell yeah.  
DISTRIBUTION: My site, list archives. Or just ask.  
RATING: R. Possibly NC-17 - I'll let you know.  
PAIRING: X/S  
SUMMARY: It's been eight years. Spike's changed. Xander POV.  
  
"Definitely. Most definitely. Talking about love is like dancing about architecture."  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
I gotta say, as far as pairings went, there was no way this particular one could've produced anything short of perfection. I had to give it to 'em - way to improve the local gene pool. Really. This was something I could admit to myself even through the thick haze of shock. I stood there wordlessly and just let the events unfurl around me. Like water to a duck. This kind of thing happened all the time, right? Exes, people having kids. Fairly common, right?  
  
Spike was still standing next to me, close enough to make a point out of it, but he was looking away, speaking to "Liz". Instead, I had another pair of pale blue eyes looking at me quizzically from under unruly blond hair. Julian, was it? all of, what, five? was peering at me from over Spike's shoulder, with his little arms wrapped loosely around his father's neck. His father's neck. His father. Spike.   
  
Oh good god.  
  
I cleared my throat nervously, the sounds around me suddenly rushing back to my ears. Spike turned to me, as did Liz, with a synchronicity that could only be born out of intimacy. Dammit.   
  
I was fidgeting. "Listen, I better head back. I... Yeah." I turned around and hailed a passing cab. It pulled up next to us. I turned back to them, and Spike was looking at me with wide eyes, and something in them that resembled... terror. Julian had turned in his arms to look at me, and he looked everything like Spike. And that was almost too much, right there. I turned my attention to Liz, suddenly all smiles.  
  
"Liz, it was very nice meeting you. I have to run, sorry this is so hurried. Hope we can do this again sometime."  
  
She shook my hand, smiling genuinely. "Sure. It was nice meeting you too, Xander."   
  
I opened the taxi door behind me and looked at Spike. He looked like I had just kicked his puppy. I felt like crap, but I didn't know what else to do. "I... I'll call you, alright? Tomorrow."  
  
He let Julian down, and the boy stayed next to him, peering up at me intriguingly. Spike's voice was laced with emotion. "Xander..."  
  
My voice hushed, too. "I will. I promise."  
  
He stared at me for a moment, uncertainty etched in every line of his face. Then he nodded. "Okay."  
  
I stepped behind the car door, reaching to touch his sleeve. Too briefly. "Really. I will."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
I nodded, tearing my eyes off him to wave goodbye at Liz again. She smiled back. Next to Spike, Julian smiled too and waved at me. I slipped inside the vehicle, pulling the heavy door closed after me. My hand was shaking. I told the driver where to, and sank back on the used upholstery, exhaling nervously. I made the mistake of looking up just as we pulled away and caught Spike's eye. Then we were pulled apart and distance rushed between him on the sidewalk with his family, and me in the cab, alone and suddenly very miserable.  
  
I breathed out a trembling sigh and fished out my cel, shoving my bag away from me across the backseat. I held off any self-deprecation until I heard the familiar voice ring in my ear.  
  
"Hello."  
  
"He has an ex and a kid who looks exactly like him and he kissed me and I left."  
  
There was silence for a moment. I held my breath, resisting going off into a full-on rant. Sarah cleared her throat. "You what?"  
  
"I took off. I'm the cab now."  
  
"What? Hold on. You're not making sense. You're nonsensical."  
  
"We went out."  
  
"On a date?"  
  
"Yes. Well, no. Not initially. But... it was very much a date when we left the restaurant."  
  
"Oooh," she cooed excitedly. "Xander's got a boyfriend!"  
  
"Listen to me. He kissed me outside the restaurant. It was good. It was really, really good, Sarah," I whined, squirming. "And then his ex-wife and kid showed up, and I... I wimped out."  
  
"Oh, is she like one of those horrible exes with a grudge and a wart on her nose?"  
  
"What? No. No, she's really nice and really pretty and she seemed... I think she liked that Spike was with someone. It was FREAKY, Sarah!"  
  
"Calm down. Geez!"  
  
"I won't! Sarah, I was kissing Spike, and his ex caught us, and I didn't even KNOW he had an ex!"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Or a kid!"  
  
"Hm."  
  
"And he's really, really great, Sarah. This... I like him. A *lot*. He's like... a whole new person. He's Spike, but he's not. He's... 'William'. And I like him. And, and I screwed up."  
  
There was another pause. "Sarah?"  
  
"Let's get this straight. He kissed you."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then his kid and ex showed up."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And she seemed pleased to see her ex kissing a guy."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"She wasn't mad."  
  
"No."  
  
"And Spike, I mean William - this is confusing - he wanted you to stay."  
  
"I think so."  
  
"And he tried to get you to stay."  
  
"Yes." I winced.  
  
"And he was disappointed when you left."  
  
"Yes. Possibly hurt, too."  
  
"And you took all this to mean that he didn't want to be with you."  
  
"Well..."  
  
"You are an idiot."  
  
"I agree."  
  
"Xander!"  
  
"I know he likes me too, I mean, that was definitely fondness. But... I need to digest all this. I was making out with the guy, and then poof - BAGGAGE!"  
  
"So?"  
  
"So??"  
  
"What are you going to do now, genius?"  
  
I sighed. "I said I would call him and I will, I just need some time."  
  
"But Xander--"  
  
"I know I'm being an ass but I just can't right now, Sarah, I can't, I need some time, so I'll just call tomorrow."  
  
"Xander."  
  
"It'll be okay. I'll just call and apologise and it'll be okay. Can you maybe check on changing my flight back though, just for a few more days... Don't change it yet, I still have to see how it goes   
when I talk to him. Maybe I'll go back on Sunday too. I don't--"  
  
"ALEXANDER LAVELLE HARRIS."  
  
I flinched as she screamed in my ear. "Jesus, Sarah, what!"  
  
"Do you even have his number?"  
  
I felt a sudden chill spread across my body. I stared blankly at the dirty plastic partition between me and the driver. "I think, I mean..." I squeezed my eyes shut. "No." Shit. I rubbed painfully at my forehead. "No, I'll look it up though, when I get back to my room. At the hotel."  
  
"And you think he's listed?" I could her the incredulity in her voice. "Xander, you haven't had a listed number in like what, six years? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you fucked up. Big time."  
  
I let out a huge sigh, my head falling back and striking the back of the seat hard. "I want to kiss him again, Sarah."  
  
I heard her smile. "Yeah."  
  
"I'll... I'll figure something out."  
  
"I'm pushing back your flight. There's nothing going on here that needs you. Do something, patch it up, because if you come back here like that you'll be impossible and I'll have to kill you."  
  
I rubbed at my eyes. "I won't be able to sleep."  
  
"And you think he will?"  
  
If my guilty assumptions were correct, she had a good point.  
  
  
  
TBC  
  
  
  



	8. (8/?)

  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (8/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis - mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/fic  
FEEDBACK: Hell yeah.  
DISTRIBUTION: My site, list archives. Or just ask.  
RATING: R. Possibly NC-17 - I'll let you know.  
PAIRING: X/S  
SUMMARY: It's been eight years. Spike's changed. Xander POV.  
  
NOTE: Lookit! It's a long time coming, I know, but in my defense, this part is more than twice as long as the other parts were. Previously parts can be found on my site. Thanks to Mad Poetess as always for the delightful editing.  
  
"Definitely. Most definitely. Talking about love is like dancing about architecture."  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
I stepped inside my hotel room and closed the door behind me with a discreet click of its lock. I stood there dejectedly, against the door in the dark, for what seemed like a small eternity. I dropped my camera bag to the ground, gently, and made my way towards what I could see of the bed. It's not that it was that dark; I just wasn't seeing anything.   
  
I couldn't remember feeling this bad about myself since my painful teenage years. The feeling was at once unsettling and oddly familiar.  
  
There were two issues battling for the fore. First, that I had screwed up. Monumentally sabotaged my own chances at something that might have been really, *really* good with the right amount of work. Secondly, the reason itself why I had screwed up. Spike had a child. With a perfectly nice woman who seemed to like him making time with guys. Or maybe just with me. Either way, I wasn't too sure why this was bothering me so, but it most definitely was.   
  
Why? Because he had moved on and gotten more of a life than me? Because he had outplayed me in the grown-up game? Any reason that came to my mind seemed ridiculous, and I became less and less impressed with my earlier actions.  
  
Had I reacted that way simply because of timing? Had we met Liz before dinner, would I have had acted differently? And why had I acted that way in the first place? Because I thought I knew everything about William after a three-hour dinner spent talking about anything but ourselves?   
  
Argh, so many questions, all of which only made me more annoyed at myself as I lay there wide awake, much too sober for my taste. Truth is, I knew the answer to most of those questions, and I only really needed to talk to him. I wasn't sure what I'd say, or even what I really wanted from him at this point, but I needed to let him know whatever had happened, it wasn't him. It might've been me on an overload of stimuli. Might have been that dinner had been too perfect, that the kiss had been too good, that his ex-wife was too beautiful and too Sarah and his little boy was too much like him and everything had looked too perfect without me in it.   
  
Might have been all that. Might have been that I had felt like I was sixteen again, pining after the unattainable, the too perfect, the ideal. Took me years to convince myself I was good enough for the elite, why not, and once I had figured it out, they were fresh out of perfection.   
  
But I wasn't asking for best in show - I just wanted another shot with Spike.  
  
I was going to pat myself on the back and call, perhaps only to have him send me off back to California without much of a second thought for the guy who bailed on a divorced dad. My problem was that I had to stop thinking of him as Spike 'from back home', good ol' vamp, all-around bad guy, who had happened to get a make-over. It was clear to me by now that very little of what I knew of that Spike remained in the updated version - and that changed everything. I had to accept that he had attachments, a new history, decisions made that hadn't included things I knew about. Sunnydale wasn't only a continent away for him, but a whole lifetime away, and while I had successfully distanced myself from my hometown as well throughout the years, I'd remained the same old guy with the inappropriate sense of humour. I had my Sarah, Spike had his. Spike had a little more, but that I could deal with if I was going to deal with any of it at all.  
  
The absurdity of the situation hit me, and I laughed listlessly in the dark. It took a certain talent to go from reunion to kiss to disaster in a matter of hours.   
  
This would've been hilarious had it not been so fucking aggravating.  
  
I toed off my shoes and let them fall to the carpet, sighing explicitly loud in the otherwise silent room. I threw both arms out on each side of me and stared hard at the pealing plaster of the ceiling above me.   
  
Then I remembered my earlier freak-out and almost fell off the bed trying to reach the phone book in the nightstand. I fished it out and sat up, flipping the thing open on my lap. Sawyer. Sawyer. Could be listed. Just because mopey-pants Sarah said it wouldn't... I pawed at the thin pages, looking through the S's and momentarily forgetting my alphabet. Ah! Sawyer. Now, William. W. My finger ran down the column of fine print, past the D's and the M's and the R's and all the others letters that came before W, to finally find three names of interest: two W's, one William. The William fellow lived on 10th, and the two others on 45th and 58th.  
  
I blinked, looked at the phone one the nightstand, then flopped down on my back, grinning and feeling absurdly pleased with myself suddenly. Yay, me. Seems like I'd get my chance to make it up after all.   
  
Now if I could just get this pesky night time over with.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
I'd figured, sometime a few hours ago in my not sleeping, that 7am would be okay. He might be up at 7am on a Saturday morning, right? He was a teacher. As far as I knew, they did crazy things like that - although my knowledge of teacher-related things was limited to whatever cliché was bandied around in my youth. But still. Seven sounded good to me right now. And seven, most importantly, was only four minutes away.   
  
I was lying on my side, utterly still by now. The rough hotel bedspread was twisted under me after a whole night of shifty restlessness, and I was wearing the same clothes as the night before. In fact I hadn't moved from the bed at all since I'd found Spike's phone number. Instead, I'd stared at the ceiling until morning light crept across it. By now I was sick of the sight of this room. I was staring intently at the red numbers of the alarm clock, inches from my face, phone number memorized right next to his complete address and how he smelled.  
  
It's this kind of thinking that got me in trouble in the first place.  
  
T-minus one minute. Sixty seconds, and I had better drag the phone right here in bed with me so I could reach for it the second I allowed myself to.   
  
Wait.  
  
What kind of crazy-ass thing was this? I wasn't diffusing a bomb, I was calling a guy. I'd called thousands of guys before. Very few of which I had feelings for, but we could just stick a pin in that for now. I grabbed the phone off its hooks seconds before the numbers turned to 7:00, and dialed the number, sombering up rather quickly.   
  
Time to grovel. Or something. Was groveling even in anymore?  
  
The rings grated at the inside of my head, and every time they stopped I almost hung up. I swear I was about to do it when the ringing stopped and I heard a faint click followed by a quiet:  
  
"Hmgh?"  
  
Huh? I squinted. "Spike?"  
  
I heard the sound of fabric ruffling around, and he coughed away from the handset. His voice came back groggy and slightly disoriented. "Xander?"  
  
I twisted my finger around the phone cord nervously. "Yeah, um, hi. It's me."  
  
There's another long pause. Then, "You called."  
  
"I said I would..."  
  
"Yeah, well..."  
  
This time the pause was awkward, but I was determined to get through this even if I had to walk on coals doing it. "So... Your ex-wife. Liz. She's really nice."  
  
"Yeah... yes, she is."  
  
"When, when did you two meet?" We could pretend we were back into our catching-up mode. It had worked fine the night before; we were getting pretty good at it, too.  
  
"Oh, we... I met her at school. She, she does a lot of research at the library there."  
  
"Yeah? She teaches too?"  
  
"No no, she's an art historian. Mostly she's a dealer. But she was writing her doctoral thesis, so she was there a lot."  
  
"Wow. People actually do that for real?"  
  
Spike laughed lightly. "Her family is quite well-off. She could've done anything she wanted. She loves art so much... she has this uncanny knack for what she does." There was something in his voice, something about her, that made something in my belly flip nervously. I ignored it the best I could.  
  
"How long have you been, um... divorced?"  
  
"Three years now."  
  
"You seem close."  
  
"We are. The split was amicable. Basically we realised we liked each other too much to be married to each other..." He paused and laughed weakly. "Does that make sense?"  
  
I smiled a bit. "I think it does."  
  
"She's the best thing that happened to me, Xander. After? When I got here? Took me a while, but then I found her and everything was better."  
  
I nodded. Somehow, I could imagine how that felt. "Does she know about..." The demon thing. Because if she did and she still stuck around, she deserved some kind of medal. And a hug.  
  
"Yes, Liz knows. I told her. I had to. It still haunted me, it didn't seem fair to hide it from her." I heard what sounded like the creak of bedsprings. "It wasn't easy, not exactly something you bring up over a light lunch. 'By the way, I used to be one of the undead. Pass the bruschetta.' But I did."  
  
I was breathless. Didn't even want to think how hard that must've been. The thought of scaring away someone you care so much about. "How did she react?"  
  
Spike laughed. "Well, she stared at me over her tempura, then she picked up her jacket and walked out. I didn't hear of her for two weeks. Then she came back and we moved in together."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Yeah. She's incredible. She's... my anchor. And she gave me Julian," he added, pride ringing clear in his voice.  
  
"How..." I wasn't sure what I was asking, here. I stared at my free hand. "How does that feel? Being a father?"  
  
"It's like nothing you've ever experienced, Xander. And I've been through a lot. It's the hardest yet most rewarding thing I've ever done. It's..." His voice got quieter, and I heard him get up, heard the cracking of the hardwood under his feet. "It's something I never ever thought I'd get to have, you know?"   
  
"He looks just like you," I added timidly, heart swelling with something unidentifiable at the love his words contained. I wanted to hear it again.  
  
But he didn't speak for a moment, and I listened to him move around the room, stalling. When he spoke again, he sounded a lot closer, and that took me off-guard.  
  
"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about them, Xander..."  
  
"It's okay," I breathed out.  
  
"No, I mean... I didn't know, I mean, this is hard enough as it is, I wasn't trying to hide anything..."  
  
"It... It is hard," I confessed. "Not just the kid, the wife thing, but - the whole thing." Where did that come from? I did not just hint at wanting to discuss feelings. Oh, hell.  
  
"I know." More pacing on his end, maybe the sound of him taking off his t-shirt. "I know." He was as lost as I was. He cleared his throat. "This isn't how I meant for things to go, I didn't expect you to come out, I mean, I thought, maybe, I just wanted you to know that I was, that--" his voice trailed off and I swallowed. Hard.  
  
I didn't say anything for a long while. I was staring at the ceiling again, but not really seeing it. "I'm... I'm glad you wrote..." I murmured.  
  
He stopped moving, and his breathing came to my ear more loudly, a bit out of whack. "You are?" Christ, how could two words contain so much? His tone was clouded with several emotions I couldn't quite decipher.  
  
"Yeah, I... I hadn't thought of you in years, I really hadn't, well maybe in passing, but... Spike, we all thought you were dead." I didn't mean the last bit of that to come out strangled. I hadn't done all this in too long.  
  
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have written. It was better that you thought that, it's, I wanted, I couldn't let you think--" I heard a loud thump. It sounded almost like something hit a wall. I heard a loud inhalation of breath and then his voice, firm now, strong, determined, and completely miserable. "Xander. I'm sorry. I can't do this. I shouldn't have written. I'm sorry you came all the way out here. Don't worry, I won't bother you again."  
  
Ouch. That hurt. What about the kiss? I never thought he'd just want to go back to how things were... Agh, I didn't know what to think. Suddenly I panicked. I gripped the handset tighter. "Wait, no. That's not... I'm glad you wrote. It came out of nowhere and it took me a while to accept that you were around still, but... I came out here because..." Gah. Words? Please? Actual sentences? "Look, I'd like to see you again. Last night was... It was nice. Really really nice. And I feel like shit that I bailed on you like that. I just... It was a lot to take all at once, and the kiss, it..."  
  
"Don't apologize, I understand." A low chuckle and god that sound was so familiar it hurt. "I would have done the same thing." A moment's pause, then so quietly I almost didn't hear it. "And I'm glad I kissed you."  
  
I grinned. "Yeah?"  
  
"Oh hell yeah." I could hear the shy smile in his voice.   
  
I just stared at the ceiling some more, grinning like an idiot and feeling like my lottery numbers had just come up. "So, um, I can see you again?" And I heard my voice crack just like when I was thirteen. I didn't know it could still do that. It was good to know.  
  
"If you like." His voice cracked too, and the grin stretched even wider. Ow, my face.  
  
"I leave Sunday morning..." Tomorrow.  
  
"Well, I guess, it's what? 9:00, 10:00?"  
  
I grinned. "I'm on my way."  
  
  
  
TBC  
  
  



	9. (9/?) REWRITE!

  
** REWRITE! Please read this one before reading part 10. Thanks! I just, um, well, I had to have Xander top after all. Heh. ***  
  
  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (9/?) REWRITE  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net  
SITE: http://fangy.net  
FEEDBACK: Hells yeah!  
DISTRIBUTION: My site, list archives. Or just ask.  
RATING: NC-17  
PAIRING: X/S  
SUMMARY: It's been eight years. Spike's changed. Xander POV.  
THANKS: To Mad Poetess for the beta-love, and to Alex for slacking and making me feel like I should write something to make HER feel lazy and guilty. Get it?  
  
"Definitely. Most definitely. Talking about love is like dancing about architecture."  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
I spent the eight-minute cab ride fighting the very strong urge to hurl the cabby out of his seat and drive the goddamn car myself. We, of course, had to hit every single red light. By now I was expecting some kind of elaborate parade to pop out of nowhere and block the next four city blocks for a couple of hours. You know, just to irk me.  
  
I sat back, hands patting my legs with idle frustration, and peered at the back of the driver's head. If this... this... *GUY* was in any way, shape or form the reason why I was in here instead of over there, there would be some kind of nasty retribution. Karma, baby. It's all about who you piss off.  
  
Whine. If this had been a movie, I would've been there seconds after hanging up, thanks to a collaborative and violently overzealous taxi person, and/or clever editing. But as it was, I had time to come up with a billion different things I could say or do once I got to Spike's door. Which was to say - I had no clue what was going to happen. And maybe I was a little thrilled about that.   
  
"I said WE'RE HERE."  
  
I blinked confusedly at the driver's scowl and realised that in the midst of my being mad at the world, I'd gone off into my own little world with no car windows to show me we were now parked in front of Spike's building. Hey, look at that!  
  
I threw what must've been an obscene amount of money in the general direction of the front seat and propelled myself out of the vehicle and onto the dirty sidewalk. The cab peeled off in a cloud of dust and a light spray of gravel, all of which settled nicely around me as I peered up the impressive building.  
  
Predictably enough, now I couldn't move.  
  
But that lasted about four seconds. Then I was sprinting past the doorman and skidding across the pristine lobby. I hit the elevator button a good dozen times, just to make sure. A decade later the door binged open, then closed, then open again, and this time I praised the good lord that Spike's door was right there in front of me. Can I get an Alleluia?  
  
The door swung open as I reached for it and with a momentum I didn't realise I had, I stumbled into the apartment - and into Spike. Before I knew what was happening I had a warm mouth pressed against mine and we went from zero to full-fledged in whatever amount of time was no time at all. Hands clutched, tongues pushed, bodies curved into one another with clumsy, clingy need. I couldn't see, didn't want to open my eyes and risk losing that feeling of something spinning majestically out of control - or clicking into place, I wasn't sure which.   
  
Blindly I felt my way up his arms, encountering only flesh, warm skin, shuddering muscles under my fingers, then cotton over firm shoulders. My brain paused just long enough to conjure up the image of Spike, William, Will, in a t-shirt and whatever else he wore when he slept alone. And that, that - I had to see.  
  
I tried to pull away but his hand behind my head held onto me, fingers digging in the short hair there. The kiss broke messily and we both gasped for air against each other's lips.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere, Will..." I whispered and he nodded, panting. Our gazes didn't meet, and I still felt a pang of regret for what I had done the night before. My hands on his arms moved to his neck, where I could feel his heart race. Then they slipped up to the sides of his face. My thumbs caressed his cheeks. I made him look at me, our foreheads touching. "I'm not leaving."  
  
He nodded again and licked his lips, but I knew I had to do more than this. I wouldn't let myself off the hook this easily. He deserved more than that.   
  
Our mouths met again, hotly. My lips parted his and just like that tongues slid against each other in that wet, silky warmth mouths have. I swung the door shut blindly and pushed Spike up against it. There was none of the awkwardness of our first kiss, with limbs in the way and the balance all wrong. I was amazed at how our bodies just leaned into each other, hands finding the right places to hold, cling, feel.   
  
"Xander," he tried between breaths.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I don't mean to be too forward, but--"  
  
"Bed."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Absolutely." Then I felt like smiling, and I did. I must've been grinning, because he answered in kind, and although I was already gasping for air, this took my breath away.   
  
He grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me along, walking backwards close to me. I guessed the door off to the far left to be his bedroom, and I stole a few kisses on the way there.   
  
Then my cel rang.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"Leave it."  
  
"Yeah." He went for my mouth again, but the damn thing kept ringing. I broke our kiss. "Argh. No. Hold on. She won't stop calling until I pick up." Completely unwilling to extricate myself from Spike's hold, I clumsily reached into my back pocket and fished out my cel, flipping it open with one hand. My eyes never left Spike.   
  
"What do you want, Sarah."  
  
"Stop it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What you're doing right now. Cut it out."  
  
"How do you DO that."  
  
"I don't want you gallivanting around and catching cooties."  
  
"Gallivanting?"  
  
"Cooties."  
  
"I'm not entirely sure, but I think our boy cooties kinda cancel each other out in this case."  
  
"Hm. You're right."  
  
Spike nibbed at my bottom lip and our tongues touched again. I heard Sarah say something else, but it was a faraway sound. I managed to bring the phone back to my ear. "Look, m'kinda busy here, Sarah..."  
  
"Right. With all the sex. Go have it. I'm gonna stay here and, you know, do laundry or something."  
  
"Atta girl. Do Matt's while you're at it, will ya?"  
  
"Ew!"  
  
"Cooties?"  
  
"The size of cats."  
  
I sank into Spike's kiss, mumbling. "Alright, I'm done talking to you now. Later." I flipped the phone shut and threw it on the nearby couch.   
  
Spike herded me into his bright bedroom, fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. I looked at him again, this time much more calmly. He wasn't looking at me, but I was struck once again by how truly beautiful he was. The slight flush of lust across his cheeks made pale blonde freckles stand out. I wanted to touch him all over, undress him and run my hand everywhere, feel the warm curves, the softened muscles, see where else I could make the sprinkled skin rise up and meet my mouth, my skin, me. We stood so close, cheeks almost touching now, and his ragged breath caressed my ear, tickling gently. Painfully arousing. His mouth brushed against my cheek. I squeezed his arms again, closing my eyes.   
  
I laughed, a little, because it felt new, and it shouldn't have. "Spike--"  
  
"Will."  
  
"Wha?"  
  
"Will. I'm not Spike anymore. You... you didn't like Spike," he whispered.  
  
"It's not that I--"  
  
"It's okay."  
  
I didn't say anything. Maybe he was right.   
  
"Spike wouldn't do this. Not like this. This... this is me." He slipped both hands into my opened shirt, and the sudden, craved skin-on-skin made me shiver.  
  
My hand ran along the curve of his spine, over his t-shirt, distracted. "Will, I--" His tongue flicked into my ear. My knees buckled. "Oh god."  
  
Will held onto me as I spoke and I felt the mattress hit the back of my knees. Then he was over me, and I'd imagined it would be the other way around, but it wasn't, and it felt just right. We crawled up the bed and I pulled at his t-shirt until it came off. His leg parted mine and straining arousals met, making both of us stop in our tracks, panting. Propped up on his elbows on each side of me, Will looked down at me amidst a mess of blond curls. The bright morning light made everything - hair, eyes, lips, chest softly heaving - look impossibly warm and real and immediate. And I needed to make sure.  
  
"Will, you--"  
  
"Yeah."   
  
He leaned in and kissed my neck, and the sensitive spot right underneath my jaw. I forgot what I wanted to ask. I was breathing against his neck and my fingers drummed an impatient little rhythm on his shoulder blade. He faced me and kissed my lips, and it felt like my first time, but for him. Awkwardly he reached down between us and cupped my erection through my jeans - and although the touch was almost too calculated, too nervous, I could feel the genuine need in it, and I bucked helplessly into his hand. I opened my mouth to ask again, but he spoke first, against my mouth.  
  
"I haven't done this in lifetimes." It sounded more apologetic than pitiful, and I searched that part of my mind I used to store arcane trivia in for that particular piece of Spike lore.   
  
Oh.  
  
"Angelus." The word spilled out of my lips, meant as a question, but not quite sounding like one.  
  
He was studying me, quiet. He nodded absently. "That was a long time ago."  
  
"Yeah," I breathed out, not really caring whether it had been centuries ago or last night. It didn't matter.  
  
"And it wasn't... It wasn't this."  
  
"I know." Then something occurred to me. "Do you want me to top?" I hated how the word came out of my mouth, anti-climactic and stale. But mostly, I hated that I wasn't new at it. I wanted the shared awkwardness, the anticipation of the new and different. But I was a 28 year old guy with a relatively active sex life, and I could do this with my eyes closed.  
  
And that single thought terrified me.  
  
My touch on his shoulder became a tight hold as I let my mind think up all the ways I was screwing this up. But Will leaned on an elbow and reached up to run his fingers through the loose curls that fell obstinately on my brow. He just grinned.  
  
Score!  
  
  
  
TBC  
  
  
(on to part 10!)  



	10. (10/?)

  
Alright. I kinda rewrote the ending of part 9. Reread it before you keep going. Thanks!  
  
  
TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (10/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net  
FEEDBACK: Would be delightful.  
DISTRIBUTION: List archives, or just ask.  
RATING: NC-17  
PAIRING: X/S  
SUMMARY: It's been eight years. Spike's changed. Xander POV.  
THANKS: As always, thanks to Mad Poetess for the beta-love, and to Alex for humouring me. And a big honking thanks to Tara Blue, who knows where I live and makes good use of the information.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
William's body stretched luxuriously under me, willing and pliant under me.  
  
He turned his head to the side when my lips trailed up his neck hotly. With a dart of my tongue there, a whispered moan fell from his parted lips and fueled whatever it was that hovered between us, pulling us toward each other ever so pressingly. I kissed along his jaw and the soft cotton of the pillow shifted with him when his neck arched back for me to taste his throat. I felt him swallow under my lips and my hips pressed against his needfully. At our sides, our hands clung, fingers entwining blindly like a mimicry of our actions to come. I dipped my tongue in the small dent at the base of his throat, and he chuckled breathlessly. I smiled against his skin, learning him.  
  
His chest heaved slowly but deeply under my kisses, and I disentangled my hand from his to touch his side. Another soft laugh escaped him when I ran my fingers down to his hip, and he moved as if he was both pulling away and drawing closer for more.   
  
Ticklish. Aw.  
  
A pleased grin danced on my lips and I flicked his nipple teasingly with my tongue. Warm fingers touched my hair hesitantly, before sinking into it when I grazed my teeth to the aroused flesh. He nuzzled the top of my head and said my name in a quiet whisper. It'd been a while since anyone had whispered my name like that, and a familiar feeling blossomed in my chest, the feeling of falling too easily, too hard. But it didn't feel reckless this time, and I pushed it aside for later inspection. It was nice to know it was there.  
  
I traced with my mouth the lean muscles down to the dip of his navel, where I lingered for a moment so I could lie between his legs. The way his thighs parted under my touch told of experience that the body, unlike the mind, does not forget.   
  
My nails raked gently through the dark blond curls, teasing still. I cupped his balls in one hand, cradling softly, fingertips brushing against the sensitive skin behind them. His hips left the mattress but I anticipated the movement and my lips and teeth grazed loosely around the head of his cock. The countered movement threw him off and sent a powerful shiver up his back, making it arch clear off the bed.  
  
"God, Xander..."  
  
His earlier confessions had left him shy and quiet, despite his open eagerness to be touched. But when he spoke, even just to breathe a word or two, his voice rose clearly through the quasi-silence of the room, quiet but louder than the muffled sounds of the early-morning traffic several storeys down. His softened accent molded my name beautifully, and I made a mental note to learn all the things that made him say it that way. It wouldn't be difficult; I already felt skilled at... at him.  
  
I crawled back up his body and he met me in an open-mouthed kiss, slipping his lips between mine hotly. My mind went blank for a moment when his teeth grazed my bottom lip, tongue lapping at the swollen flesh. I was panting against the corner of his mouth, trying hard to piece my brain back together long enough to string a sentence together.  
  
"We need to... Do you have anything?"  
  
Will looked up at me, propped up on his elbows, and we were much too close for dialogue. But neither pulled back. I couldn't see anything but the deep black of his dilated pupils, eclipsing almost completely the cloudy blue. I reached up and brushed my thumb under his eye, where a healthy flush coloured his cheek.  
  
"I, I don't. I haven't been with anyone since Liz."  
  
Since I happened to be thinking, at that very moment, that he was quite possibly the most beautiful human to walk this earth, this took me aback. "In three years?"  
  
He grinned sheepishly, the flush spreading. "Well, not exactly."  
  
I gasped with a mock scowl. "William! You skank!"  
  
"Hey!" He shoved me back, grinning.  
  
"Shtupping your own ex-wife!"  
  
He shoved me off the bed with his foot on my stomach and I landed in a giggling lump on the carpet.  
  
Will leaned back on his elbows, suddenly sporting Spike's patented cocky grin and a very enthusiastic hard-on. "Well I *said* it was amicable."  
  
I grabbed my jeans from a few feet away and fished out my wallet. "That's not amicable, that's daytime television." I came back to lean against the edge of the bed, brandishing a small foil wrapper. "Got it."  
  
"You walk around with a condom in your wallet? What are you, sixteen?" he snorted, a bit breathless, decidedly sounding more and more like Spike. Did lust do that to him? I planned on finding out.  
  
"Hey, always prepared."   
  
"And I'm the skanky one."  
  
I climbed back on the bed and he met me halfway, our bodies immediately curving into each other again. Further thoughts of comedic verbal sparing were effectively driven away from my mind when he sat up against me and thrust his tongue into my mouth, clamping his hand behind my head. Then he broke the kiss with an audible slurp and snatched the condom from my fingers.  
  
"I'll take that."  
  
I snickered and opened my mouth to comment on his sudden animation, but he pushed my shoulder until my back was against the mattress and him over me, mirroring our earlier embrace. Only this time, I was the one looking up at him.   
  
My mouth literally watered.  
  
I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut, suddenly feeling like I'd never done this. Well I'd never done this with him, so I guess the feeling was valid. I could've put this in sappier terms, but the blood had rushed out of my head, leaving me dizzy and burning up everywhere he touched me.   
  
His warm weight over me was like balm on aching muscles. I was never one to just lay there and take it, and being pinned under Will, while decidedly a pleasant novelty, didn't thwart that. My hands were everywhere on him, palming the moving muscles, coaxing the hardened flesh of his nipples into sending visible shivers down the curve of his spine. His breath hitched against my neck and our hips rose together, skin flush against skin, grinding hungrily. I groaned and his teeth grazed the length of my neck, tongue tasting the light sheen of sweat I could feel on my skin, the kind that only comes from another body heat closely feeding your own.   
  
He licked my collarbone, tongue flat along the length of it, feral and possessive. And it felt like it was something he was familiar with, something not quite new to 'William'. He muffled my whimper with a hard kiss, one that sent me reeling, the kind of kiss *I* usually gave when I was trying to prove a point and didn't have the words for it. But his felt a little less thought-out, and a whole lot messier. His hand reached between us and took a solid hold of my cock, holding my hips down with his free hand. He faced me, looked like he was going to say something, but instead ducked down and out of my view.   
  
Good GOD.  
  
Then heat, incredible heat, where I still expected cold. Wet heat and wet sucking sounds and warm, wet fingers stroking and caressing and examining each inch of flesh they could reach. I felt devoured, in the most literal sense of the word. It felt more honest, more earnest than anyone's mouth had ever felt on me. The sincere, clumsy need easily outshone any lack of experience he might've had. His hair tickled my belly and I both felt and heard him moan. My fingers dug into the soft linen and I was about to reach down to yank him away - too soon, too close, gotta make this last, gotta be for him, I was a jerk to him last night - but it was warm and wet and firm and just right, the bastard, I could've kill Angel for teaching him and - gone. Gone? Gone, but replaced with those fingers, stroking and caressing with intent now, unrolling the condom down my length. A goodbye kiss and he was back over me, but not for long. This part I did best. This part I wanted to do for him.   
  
I fastened my mouth over his and held him against me, until he was back under me. Panting, I grinned at how disheveled he looked, even more breathless than I was, and he answered with a smirk straight out of my youth. I leaned down again and covered it with a demanding kiss, way past the delicate softness of foreplay. He bit at my lips, breaths melding, noses bumping in haste. I spoke into the kiss, unsure of the words that were coming out of my mouth.   
  
"We need... shit, you don't have..."  
  
"Wait, wait, wait, wait, I do have something... Let me just..." He reached for the bedstand, fumbling blindly for the drawer. It might've been easier to let go of his mouth for the operation, but that would've been asking way more of me than I was capable of at the moment.   
  
Then he grinned into my mouth. "Woohoo!"  
  
"I gotta say," I gasped, catching my breath and admiring that lovely face, brightened by arousal, "I've had guys say a lot of things during this, but I never got a 'woohoo!'"   
  
Will shoved a small plastic bottle in my hand. Took me a moment to remember how to read English.   
  
"Girlie hand lotion."  
  
"Liz's."  
  
"There's something truly twisted about this," I managed to snicker, flipping the cap open with my thumb. Mmm, aloe.   
  
I only had one hand free, so Will grabbed the bottle and squirted a generous dollop of lotion in my hand, before tossing the bottle so far away from the bed it skidded into the livingroom. His knees hooked over my hips and I reached down and past his throbbing erection. He moaned when the cool substance touched his skin, but immediately relaxed into my touch, so much so that I could just slip one finger in, easily. At this point, I thought my heart would just pound out of my chest. If only he'd stopped looking at me, for just a moment so I could've gotten myself together - but he didn't, and the words just tumbled out of me, tangled, cliché but so heart-felt it almost hurt to utter them.  
  
"God... so warm, Will. Like, like daylight. Like you. And tight, so tight, too tight... I can't..." He gasped when I slid a second finger in, with no resistance but an enveloping warmth. He hung on to my every word, fighting to keep his eyes open and his focus on my lips.   
  
"Xan, Xander..."  
  
"Shh... yeah like that." I shifted so my hand could move more easily. "Tight and hot and I can't wait to get inside you and I want to be inside you right now and I can't, but I will, just... just hold still for a moment, hold still. One more, just one more and it's in and I want you around me, me inside you, you know how it is. It's good, Will. God, I want you. I'm sorry about last night." I dropped my forehead to his chest, loving the feel of him around me like this. I couldn't imagine what it would be like in a moment. "I can't-- I can't wait and it has to be now....."  
  
He pulled me up and kissed me hard.  
  
"Spike--"  
  
"Please," he breathed into my mouth.  
  
I nodded, hair in my eyes but blinded more by the ghost feel of his wet mouth on me, colouring out of the lines of my lips. I leaned in, and there was more kissing, soft kissing, kissing was good. Chin brushing against chin, cheek against cheek, mouth against mouth. Tongues licking each other's lips. My hair fell on his face, against the lighter strands of his curls, and I pressed my cheek to Will's as I pressed in. My lips parted in a silent gasp at the feel of it, letting me in and closing around me, perfectly.   
  
Nuzzling the heated skin at his temple, I tried to think really, really hard about lint and taxi cabs and reorganising my dark room and anything but the way Will felt pressed against me, around me. Anything but the warm slick-slide of skin on skin. Anything but the hot press of Will's cock between our bodies. Anything but any of that, anything but now, and here, and him, and it was no good because I couldn't think about anything else as Will lay there for me, writhing and moaning, again for me, and because of me.   
  
Then I was moving, hard and fast and deep, and somewhere in the back of my mind I worried that I might've be hurting him, but he thrust up as I thrust down and cried out, high and sweet. The sound spurred me on, and it was all I could do not to come right then and there. It wouldn't be long, I knew; I could tell from the hot rush of sensation pooling at the base of my spine.   
  
With a heave, I pushed all of my weight onto one arm, and reached between our bodies with the other hand to take Will's cock. I grasped firmly and pumped, once, twice, three times in unison with the rhythm of my own thrusts. And that was all it took. Will arched up, away from the mattress and into my body, hot seed spurting into the space between our stomachs, making the slip and slide of skin that much easier. One last thrust, hard and deep, and I was there too, and it was so good and so right and the world fell away until all that was left was me and Will and that still surprising heat.  
  
  
  
TBC  
  
  
  



	11. (11/?)

TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (11/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net  
SITE: http://fangy.net  
DISTRIB: My site, list archives, those who already have my stuff. Otherwise just ask.  
RATING: NC-17  
PAIRING: X/S  
SUMMARY: It's been eight years. Spike's changed. Xander POV.  
THANKS: As always, thanks to Mad Poetess for the beta-love, to Tara Blue for beating me with the appropriate sticks, and to Alex for everything else.  
  
Previous parts at http://fangy.net/daa.html  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
I woke up slowly, the way you do when you've slept particularly well. I was ensconced in a warm cocoon of soft sheets, thick down comforter and plush pillows that curved around my body just right. I was also sprawled on my stomach, stark naked, and frankly completely unwilling to move. The afternoon sun warmed my right cheek and shoulder and I groaned happily, not missing my own bed at all.   
  
You know that special smell people's bedrooms have? The nice kind. Mostly it makes you aware that you're not in your own things, while leaving you slightly thrilled for the exact same reason. Will's room had that, only it had a little something familiar too, and I just felt like closing my eyes again and falling right back asleep, lungs full of it.  
  
The room was silent and I knew I was alone. I smiled and listened to him moving around in the other room. I could hear the radio playing softly, and the sound of papers being moved around as quietly as possible. I loved this, this brief little feeling of domestic bliss you manage to experience after the first few times, if it's the right guy. I could've done this for hours, bask in the smell and warmth of his things, but I had this nagging urge to join him.  
  
And, I had to pee. Gah.  
  
Lazily I pushed the blankets off of me and dragged myself out of the bed, my feet meeting the textured surface of an area rug, then lukewarm hardwood as I made my way to the door that I assumed led to the bathroom. I padded along sleepily, stretching and enjoying the nakedness. I never slept in the buff normally - made all the other times less special, I always thought.   
  
The bathroom tiles were cold, and it woke me up a little more. I stared at the painting hanging on the wall over the toilet, which I could swear was an original... something. My art history was a little fuzzy. But, points for putting something entertaining on that surface. My kind of guy.  
  
Hell, who was I kidding? Very much my kind of guy. Or perhaps my guy, period. I'd wait a bit more before making that assessment, but it was looking good. Meanwhile, I was alone naked in a nicely decorated bathroom, with only one of my two itches satisfied.  
  
I made my way back out and picked up my boxers from where they'd landed earlier. I slipped them on, taking in the room around me again. How many books did the man OWN?   
  
I wandered out of the bedroom silently, and I had to smile when I saw Will. He was sitting at the dining table in the same outfit he had greeted me in this morning and his hair fell into his eyes, over his glasses, as he leaned forward over a sea of papers that covered the entire surface of the table. His forehead rested on his fist, and he was reading with a pen in his hand, so engrossed he didn't notice me. I leaned in the doorway and watched him for a few seconds, a wide smile spreading across my face.  
  
The song on the radio ended and the host started speaking again, stirring Will out of his trance. I came closer and he looked up at me, his sudden smile reaching his eyes instantly. He got up as I came closer, taking off his glasses and leaving them on top of the paper he was reading. Our bodies brushing against each other.  
  
"Hey," I whispered, running my hand up his arm.  
  
"Hey. Slept well?"  
  
"On that cloud on a box spring? Yes."  
  
He grinned and leaned in, running his nose along my cheek to my ear. I felt his hands on my hips, holding me closer, flush against him. I backed up a little and ended up leaning against the table, Will firmly nestled between my thighs.   
  
Nuzzle. Lick. Men did not giggle.  
  
'Good morning' brush of lips, 'I still want you here' fingertips against the throat. A quiet appreciation for the shared intimacy of a good 'after'. I didn't want to go anywhere, not with the fingers walking up my spine like this, feather-light. I kind of felt like he was trying to adapt his caresses to fit a man, but he seemed distracted, something that might've had to do with my tongue in his ear and my sudden need to get my fingers between cotton and skin.   
  
His own fingers dug gently into the material of my boxers over my right butt cheek. "Hungry?" He was a little breathless, despite his best effort to sound conversational.  
  
I let blond curls tickle at my eyelids, my nose. "Famished."  
  
"Lunch, then?" His thumb hooked under the waistband.  
  
I pulled back slightly just to look at him, still awfully close. I was grinning like an idiot. "Sounds good." I leaned in for the kiss he was practically dangling in front of me.  
  
"DADDY!!!"  
  
And because history tends to repeat itself, Will was pulled away from me by a small person wedging himself between us. His eyes didn't leave mine and he bent to pick up his child, leaning in to give me a quick kiss on the lips before unleashing an obscene amount of attention to his son. I grinned, feeling silly and happy, and reclined back against the table to watch.  
  
Just when Julian had his little arms around Will's neck (everybody seemed to be wanting to do that), the front door opened wider and let in Liz, a vision in white and tan, a vision currently gesturing like a mad woman. She tossed her shoulder bag on the chair next to the door and took off her coat, ranting on.  
  
"Hey Will. Ugh, you wouldn't believe what happened to me today, already. Those two Dallaire I bought from the family of the artist? I'm supposed to have them shipped to Nina Senack. I said, London, Ontario. I was quite clear. Ontario. In Canada. Not London, England. My paintings are in fucking Europe. Morons. My assistants are all morons."   
  
With that she disappeared into the kitchen. Will threw me an amused glance. Julian squirmed out of his arms and ran to his bedroom, shouting something just as his mother started again, re-emerging with a bottle of Perrier.  
  
"So I tell Sharon Pell to talk to someone, anyone, just get me my shipment back ASAP, because if I have to get my own ass on a plane and get it myself, someone's gonna get hurt on the other end. So she says fine, and then ten minutes later her assistant calls me back and says she has to fly to Albuquerque for an urgent meeting she probably just made up, which means I have to deal with Linda Lyall again, and I want to quit and go live in an igloo somewhere very cold."   
  
She took a swig of her Perrier, finally noticing me. She swallowed and grinned.  
  
"Xander!"  
  
I crossed my arms over my bare chest, with a little wave. "Hey Liz."  
  
She sauntered over, looking quite pleased with herself. She looked really good, right out of a Calvin Klein ad for the hip business woman, and I could easily see why Will wasn't completely over her yet.   
  
"Well. I'm so glad I'm here! Please, don't mind me. Pretend I'm not even here. I'll just watch from over there."  
  
Will took the Perrier bottle from her hand and took a sip. "A very cold place, eh? As opposed to those igloos they have in Ecuador."  
  
Liz kicked his leg and took the bottle back. "I'm not kidding. Whose idea was this?"  
  
"What? You doing what you do? Yours."  
  
"Yeah, shut up." He grinned back at her and she turned to me, appraising me openly. "You're both so pretty."  
  
Will leaned closer to me. "You'll have to excuse my ex-wife, she fancies herself a bit of a fag hag."  
  
"Hell yes. But that's for another time. So - Jules ate. He's really behind with his project for class so you might want to make him start on that tonight. If he says I said it was alright for him to call my mother about the cake thing, you're allowed to laugh at him. He'll know what it means." She picked a little fuzz from his t-shirt while she spoke. I smiled. "So I should be a little late on Tuesday, not a whole lot, I'll call to let you know. Meanwhile, try not to, you know, have too much sex in front of my kid. It'll make me look bad."  
  
"Yes, it will."  
  
She leaned in to kiss him lightly, and started toward the door. "I'm late, or I'd stay to take a few pictures, honest. Catch you tomorrow?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"'Kay. I'm off to deal with Lyall and her merry men. BYE JULES!"  
  
"BYE MOM!"  
  
She grabbed her coat and her bag, and then she was gone, and the apartment was quiet again. I looked at Will.  
  
"She always like that?"  
  
He smiled, a little wistful. "Liz? Yeah."  
  
He stepped closer to me and the back of my thighs hit the edge of the table again. He leaned in for a long kiss, quiet; I could hear the wheels grinding in his head as his tongue met mine. I cupped the back of his head and brought him closer. After a few moments he broke the kiss but stayed close, and a genuine smile tugged at his lips. He flicked a black curl out of my eyes. "You really ARE pretty."  
  
"You're not too shabby yourself," I whispered back and I could tell he wasn't thinking about Liz anymore, which made me feel really, really good. I couldn't compete with the mother of his child, I knew it, but I'd be happy with just the little part of his heart he was giving me now. Beyond happy.  
  
"You can go check on your kid. I'll go make myself decent."  
  
His hand crept up the leg of my boxer, on the back of my thigh. "Must you really?"  
  
I grinned and extricated myself from his embrace, reluctantly. "I want to make a good impression. Wouldn't do to let your kid know just how much of a skank I really am."   
  
  
* * *  
  
  
When I came back out wearing the same clothes I'd had on for the past twenty-four hours, Will was on the phone with someone from the University. I poked around the living room a bit, then wandered to Julian's room. I wasn't sure why. I knocked on the half-closed door.  
  
"Come in, Dad!"  
  
I pushed the door open a bit and poked my head in. Julian was sitting on the floor amidst an impressive spread of little train tracks, the plastic pieces not yet put together. His backpack and coat were on his bed, and his bag was open, its content half spilled out on the bedspread.  
  
"Hey, Julian. It's Xander."  
  
He looked up. "Hi."  
  
"Can I come in?"  
  
"Yes. Be careful, don't step on my tracks."  
  
"Got it." I tiptoed my way to the desk opposite the bed and pulled out the chair. "Quite the collection you've got there."  
  
He beamed. "I just got it. For my birthday. I'm not too sure how it works yet, but my mom said I just had to read the instructions that came with the box."  
  
I took the time to watch him, his little fingers busy putting together the plastic caboose. "Your mom is wise."   
  
"She says she knows everything." He looked up at me, big eyes wide and... absurdly blue. My breath caught in my throat, and I smiled off his grin. "But I think she's lying."  
  
I tried to act normal, like I wasn't having a life-changing moment, right here sitting on his little desk chair. "Well, most mothers like to pretend they do. And let me tell you something - you can work that to your benefit."  
  
"That's what my dad said."  
  
"He's a smart guy."  
  
He fiddled with the caboose a little, studying me silently. Then, "Are you my dad's boyfriend?"  
  
Oh, kid. Julian. God, I hoped so. I rested my elbows on my knees, examining my hands, like they would tell me what to say. "I..."  
  
The door creaked on its hinges and I looked up, seeing Will standing in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame. He was looking at me too, waiting for my answer. His expression was unreadable, and for a moment I was scared.   
  
"Am I?" I said quietly, suddenly scared of losing this little family I had become fond of in mere hours.  
  
But Will nodded, wordlessly, barely visibly, and smiled softly.  
  
I exhaled shakily, and gave Julian his answer, longing to hear it aloud myself. "Yeah, I guess I am." A grin threatened to split my face in two.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	12. (12/?)

TITLE: "Dancing About Architecture" (12/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net  
SITE: http://fangy.net  
DISTRIB: My site, list archives, those who already have my stuff. Otherwise just ask.  
RATING: NC-17  
PAIRING: X/S  
SUMMARY: It's been eight years. Spike's changed. Xander POV.  
THANKS: Mad Poetess. Alex "WD-40" Brown. Tara Blue. Meg Graham. Everyone with the wonderful feedback. Smooches to all.  
NOTE: I have no idea what the NYU campus really looks like. I made it up. Go with it.  
  
Previous parts at http://fangy.net/daa.html  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
  
"Y-ello!"  
  
"It's done."  
  
"It's done?"  
  
"Done. Packing up as we speak."  
  
"Great!"  
  
"I'll have the whole thing shipped to you overnight. Matt needs to tweak it."  
  
"He knows this?"  
  
"He does. But remind him."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He can't mess this one up."  
  
"I'll leave a note. You done with your day then?"  
  
"Yup. Heading back to the apartment. Might go see Will."  
  
"Can I whine?"  
  
I smiled, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear so I could use both hands to fold the tripod legs. "Whine away."  
  
"WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME!"  
  
"Never. I have sex here. Here is good."  
  
"You don't love me. And your dog is convince you've abandoned him. He's got this homicidal glint in his eye I worry about."  
  
"Rub his belly."  
  
"He wants YOU to rub his belly, Xander. We miss you over here."  
  
I sighed. "I know. I miss you too. It's friggin' cold here. I like September better in California."  
  
"I bet."  
  
"But again, sex. Sex with a really hot guy I'm in love with. I'll handle the cold."  
  
I heard her smile. "I like you this happy."  
  
"You like me cranky, too. You're indiscriminate in your fondness of me."  
  
"You're not making other friends, are you? Because we'd have to fly over and kill them."  
  
"No no, I'm as anti-social as can be. Promise. A real bastard. Everybody hates me here."  
  
"Cool."  
  
"You're still scouting for me, right? I only have three things next week. Book me stuff."  
  
"Yeah, okay. Not ideal, though, you know. The whole long distance thing. You'll have to figure something out."  
  
"I will, I will."  
  
"Alright. Go. Go have obnoxious afternoon sex with your boyfriend."  
  
"I think I will. It's a lovely day to get laid."  
  
Her laugh rang clear in my ear. I missed it. "I take it back. You're annoying when you're this happy."  
  
"Bye, Sarah."  
  
"Love ya!"  
  
I flipped the cel closed and shoved it in my pocket, hoisting two folded tripods and three shoulder bags. I trudged out to the street where I hailed a cab and headed back to the place I'd started, in the last four months, calling home.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
'You have three new messages.'  
  
*BEEEEEEEEEEEP*  
  
'Morning, boys. It's Sarah. Xander, you there? Pick up. Pick up! Alright, guess you left already. I'll try your cel.'  
  
*BEEP*  
  
'Hi Will, it's Janet. Mom asks if you and Jules can come over for dinner on Sunday. Lizzie has the details. See you then, hopefully!'  
  
*BEEP*  
  
'Hey luv. I'm having a late lunch - care to join me if you're done? I'll be outside the Commons around two. See you in a bit - love you!'  
  
*BEEEEEEEEEEEP*  
  
'End of messages.'  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
I strolled across the wide expanse of thick green grass by the NYU Commons, squinting behind my sunglasses at the bright afternoon sun. I spotted Will sitting under one of the neatly manicured trees, chatting with a few students. I stopped and just watched for a few minutes, smiling at the sight.   
  
How pretty my boy was, again with the rolled-up shirt sleeves and the loosened tie. It had gotten warm around noon, and Will laid there, stretched out and propped up on his elbows, his legs crossed at the ankles, sans jacket. He had sunglasses on too, and he laughed at something the young woman next to him said. Their laughter drifted to me and I wandered over, hands in my pockets, their light mood contagious.  
  
The students noticed me first. I had to walk all the way to him till the tips of my shoes touched his pants for him to notice me. He looked up and beamed at me, a hand up to block out the sun.  
  
"Xander! You made it!"  
  
"Yup. Shoot went well. I'm all yours."  
  
"That's what I like to hear."   
  
He got to his feet, retrieving his jacket from the ground, shaking blades of grass out of it. He excused himself and we walked away. Will threw his jacket over his shoulder, and his free hand brushed against mine, between us, the back of his fingers lingering against mine.  
  
"What do you want to eat?"  
  
"Dunno. How much time do you have?"  
  
He looked at the inside of his wrist, where his watch always fell (it was too big for him, but I didn't say anything - I found it cute as hell). "An hour... and a half."  
  
"Yeah? Wanna take a cab and go home? We can... eat there."  
  
He smirked at me and we hit the street, where he finally took my hand in his, our fingers entwining easily. "Yes. Eating. Food. I said lunch, right?"  
  
"Well we could also have sex. Sarah told me to have sex with you this afternoon. It would be rude not to, I would think."  
  
Will peered at me suspiciously, a smile pulling at his mouth. "Sarah said this? Has she been talking to Liz?"  
  
I hailed a passing cab and herded Will into it, my hand lingering on the small of his back. "You'd think. Sadly she is very capable of interfering in our sex life on her own."  
  
"That's hardly interference," he pointed out.   
  
I agreed. "Hurry up, time's a-wastin'. Sandwiches to make, head to give..."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
True to my promise, once we got home I couldn't take my hands off him. He calmly perused the contents of the fridge, while I was more interested in the content of his pants, to put it bluntly. My hands were untucking the back of his shirt, feeling his back, his stomach, my arms around him, my face in his neck, in his hair, my mind in the dirty places he often took me just by suggesting we go there.  
  
"Want some iced tea?"  
  
"No. I want *you*."   
  
A kiss on the neck, always a sure-fire way to redirect his train of thought my way. The cold from the refrigerator touched our skin, wintery, bracing. My hand traveled down while his own reached out blindly to hold on to the edge of a shelf. I pressed my body into his and both of us further into the cold. Bottles rattled in the door, some on the top shelf.   
  
I turned him around and sunk to my knee, my hands working his belt. I didn't need to look; instead I watched him, his closed eyes, his hair mussed by my attentions, the serious but aroused part of his lips, the way his knuckles whitened from his grip on the cold plastic. He shuddered and licked his lips. He was warm in my mouth, achingly responsive.  
  
My hands slid up the back of his thighs and I brought him closer to me. The tiles under my knees were cold and hard, but familiar. So was his hand in my hair, not gripping or pulling but caressing, fingers raking soothingly against my scalp, making me moan helplessly against his flesh. If I thought *I* knew him, how to work his body, what made him sigh and gasp - I had nothing on him, on how he played *me*, on his knowledge of the littlest things that made my knees go weak, that made my heart melt, that drove me absolutely out of my mind. His fingers traced lazy patterns in my hair and barely paused when my teeth grazed his skin. His breath hitched on my name, whispered like a thank-you. The last syllable was swallowed into a moan as I cradled his balls in my hand, kneading softly, loving the warmth and feel of my lover.   
  
A gentle pull of his fingers. "Xander…"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
I stood up on shaky legs and he turned back against me, looking at me move from over his shoulder. I kissed his neck, licked his throat, his ear, and he closed his eyes again, moaning happily. My fingers fumbled for my belt and moments later we were flesh on flesh and I pressed him to me eagerly, just wanting to feel him for a moment before I lost myself in him. He coughed in the cold air; a thin cloud of steam formed before his mouth to disappear immediately, leaving his lips dry. He licked them and coughed again.  
  
I ran my hand along his arm. "Cold?"  
  
"Mm-hm..."  
  
"Come here."  
  
I pulled him to me and closed the refrigerator door. He clutched at my hands around him and moments later I had him bent over the counter, on the cutting board, my slicked up fingers inside him, knowing just where to touch to make his hips rise involuntarily into mine. I cupped his body with mine and slid into him, hearing the sudden sharp intake of breath. His fingers clutched at the thick wood of the board; mine at his waist, his wrinkled shirt, and I rested my forehead on his back, between the shuddering muscles of his shoulders, keeping us together as much as I could, before starting to move.   
  
Will was typically a quiet one during love-making, most eloquent with his hands or lips or eyes - when he opened them to look at me, which usually made me into a blubbering idiot - but today, in the midst of an afternoon tryst in his brightly lit kitchen, I heard soft moans fall from his lips, my name, supplications, my name again. All manners of deities were invoked - improperly, but not without heart - then dismissed in favour of me, it always came back to me. Only it was never said for my benefit, or even, I suspected, for his. The whispered words brushed onto the wood and died there, unchecked, while his hands gripped my arm laced around his waist.  
  
I came with a shiver, the kind that starts at the base of your spine and just shoots up to your brain and straight into each of your limbs. My arm clenched around him and my mouth gaped wordlessly against the warm - warm! - cotton of his shirt. My eyes squeezed shut and everything went black, with the pounding in my ears and the throbbing in my gut, and next thing I knew it was minutes later and I hadn't notice Will coming. He had, I could feel it in the way his back heaved softly under me.   
  
I smiled lazily and turned to rest my cheek against his back. "I love you..."  
  
If Will was usually quiet during sex, he was even more so afterwards, and he did stay true to that now. My words were met with a sweet silence, one I treasured more than anything. His hand squeezed mine where they were still clutched together.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
I sauntered over to the ringing living room phone, feeling too giddy for my own good, I'm sure.  
  
"Sawyers residence!"  
  
"Xander?"  
  
"Hey little man! What's up?"  
  
"Nothing. I was bored. Mommy's napping."  
  
"Yeah, you probably suck the life right out of her, don't you," I accused mockingly.  
  
"I do NOT!" He laughed.  
  
"You're a beast-child."  
  
"I AM NOT!" Giggles. I'm good.  
  
"You're not? I'm disappointed, Jules. Beast-children are cool."  
  
"Beast-children are hairy."  
  
"Hey, I resent that. I was a very well-adjusted non-hairy beast-child myself. With hair only on top of my head and all."  
  
"You're lying!"  
  
"I am. I'm sorry. I was hairy all over the place, clogging drain holes everywhere. Speaking of which, did you want to talk to your dad? He's in the shower. I could have him give you a call when he gets out?"  
  
"No, it's okay. You'll do."  
  
I'll do.   
  
I love this child.  
  
  
  
TBC 


End file.
